The wind                                     gusty trees,
 The moon                                   cloudy seas,
 The road                                    purple moor,
 And the                         Riding? riding?
 The highwayman                        old inn-door.

 He'd a                                                       his chin,
 A coat                                       brown doe-skin;
 They fitted                                            the thigh!
 And he                                          butts a-twinkle,
 His rapier                           jewelled sky.

 Over the                                         dark inn-yard,
 And he                                                          and barred;
 He whistled                                         waiting there
 But the                                           landlord's daughter,
 Plaiting a                                  black hair.

 And dark                            stable-wicket creaked
 Where Tim                                         and peaked;
 His eyes                                        mouldy hay,
 But he                                               red-lipped daughter,
 Dumb as                                     robber say?

 "One kiss,                                  prize to-night,
 But I                                               morning light;
 Yet, if                                             the day,
 Then look                                   by moonlight,
 I'll come                                              the way."

 He rose                                                her hand,
 But she                                                        a brand
 As the                                             his breast;
 And he                                                               the moonlight!)
 Then he                                                           the West.


 He did                                          at noon;
 And out                                         the moon,
 When the                                        purple moor,
 A red-coat                      Marching? marching?
 King George's                              old inn-door.

 They said                                         ale instead,
 But they                                                      narrow bed;
 Two of                                             their side!
 There was                                        dark window;
 For Bess                                                   would ride.

 They had                                       sniggering jest;
 They had                                                    her breast!
 "Now, keep                                                      man say?
 Look for                               by moonlight;
 I'll come                                              the way!

 She twisted                                         held good!
 She writhed                                                or blood!
 They stretched                                                        like years,
 Till, now,                                                of midnight,
 The tip                                                was hers!

 The tip                                                  the rest!
 Up, she                                                her breast,
 She would                                       strive again;
 For the                                                   the moonlight;
 And the                                                            refrain .

 Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!                                    ringing clear;
 Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,                                               not hear?
 Down the                                       the hill,
 The highwayman              Riding, riding!
 The red-coats                                                 and still!

 Tlot-tlot, in                                       echoing night!
 Nearer he                                    a light!
 Her eyes                                           deep breath,
 Then her                                                     the moonlight,
 Shattered her                                               her death.

 He turned;                                         who stood
 Bowed, with                                                 red blood!
 Not till                                          to hear
 How Bess,                                         black-eyed daughter,
 Had watched                                                darkness there.

 Back, he                                             the sky,
 With the                                              brandished high!
 Blood-red were                                                velvet coat,
 When they                                                  the highway,
 And he                                                            his throat.

 And still                                                    the trees,
 When the                                       cloudy seas,
 When the                                        purple moor,
 A highwayman               Riding? riding?
 A highwayman                         old inn-door.

 Over the                                       dark inn-yard;
 He taps                                                  and barred;
 He whistles                                         waiting there
 But the                                           landlord's daughter,
 Plaiting a                                  black hair.